Twenty Twenty
by OrangePlum
Summary: "There's something wrong with my neighbor." US/UK


_Author's Notes_: A small drabble. You guys know I like creepy concepts, and I didn't even mean to like something as _out there_ as this, but I saw a picture on tumblr and I couldn't help myself. Short, sweet, and to the point. The artist is snefrev so go check her pictures out. You'll know the right one when you find it.

I don't really know how to tab this either, guys. I guess in a sense it's a kind of hurt/comfort? Idk.

* * *

There's something wrong with my neighbor.

I don't mean that in the literal sense – actually, strike that. That's exactly what I mean. There is just something wrong with him that makes the other occupants on our street part around him and his little, ugly brown house like river water around a stone. I sit on my porch across the street and place my chin in my hands, watching him emerge from the old, rickety door, adjusting his jacket collar and pulling out his keys.

My friends say he was a soldier that sacrificed himself for his unit by covering a mine. They said he was given an honorable discharge and found a house in the valley to preoccupy himself.

I note the way the worn bandages wind around his hands and disappear up the jacket's sleeve. He wears scarves and gloves a lot, but I've never seen him without the bandages on his hands or adjourning his nose. I don't buy the soldier story.

I think he has leprosy. The constant medical care and isolation seem to fit the puzzle better than an explosion. But that doesn't seem to really match either, so I brush it aside and kick at a patch of dirt by the side of my shoe. He walks down the steps and opens the waist-high gate that leads to the side of his shrubby house. When he returns, he has gardening tools.

My dad says he's in the mob. Years of working for some shady people can do that to you, you know. He probably has fucked up hands. I imagine gnarled scars cutting down a pale torso, thick patches of skin posed in a blemish that couldn't seal back together properly.

I didn't know we had a mob in peaceful suburbia. My old man's a drunk, so I don't deem him a credible source.

I watch as he kneels down and works around in the dirt, sweat lining his brow and fingers diligently tending to the only thing kempt in the yard: a small patch of daisies on the edge of his fence. He comes outside only to garden and to go to the store I've noticed. Every time he gets in his car there are grocery bags. How can he be in the mob if he never goes anywhere?

My mom says he is an ex-con, and my classmate says something even more ludicrous: that he is a serial killer.

A shiver shoots up my spine and I shudder in excitement, though I know it to be false. I don't know when I became obsessed with my neighbor who dresses like he's in Antarctica even in the boiling heat of summer. But on this random afternoon of no particular significance, I get off my ass and make my way over to the gate.

It takes him a good minute to even notice I'm standing over him, obviously too enthralled with his pansy gardening. He halts, eyeing me over the obtrusive cloth winding around the middle of his face. God, he looks ridiculous. I want to take it off.

"Can I help you?" he asks, and his voice sounds like a soft breeze on a warm day. It's nice. Certainly not a serial killer's voice. Then again, I've never met a serial killer that I know of, so I could be wrong.

"I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones," I say. His eyes dart around my face, probably looking for a point there for me standing over him like some sort of creepy eavesdropper.

"Arthur," he responds, and sticks his hand out as if to shake mine, but he quickly retracts it self-consciously when I reach forward to clasp my fingers around his bandaged appendage. Arthur bites at his lip and I snort.

"Aren't you hot?" I ask. Arthur frowns, wiping his dirty palms against his slacks. He looks uncomfortable. Maybe he's an alien.

"Not terribly. I'm used to weather like this."

"You lived somewhere hot before?" I ask again, my mind drifting to Roswell, New Mexico. His pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows allude that I'm wrong.

"England."

"England's not hot."

Arthur's frown deepens and he fidgets. He's edgy. "It can get hot at times like anywhere else. Do you need something?" he asks, changing the subject before I can get the words out of my mouth.

"I just wanted to say hi," I say stupidly. That's basically the truth. I just moved on impulse. My mom says I need to think before I act more often. I'm starting to think she's right.

"Yes, well, hello," Arthur says, his vision darting to my house around the side of my hipbone. I jut it in front of him and he reels back, his eyes questioning me. I don't want him to think about my house, I want him to talk to me. His finger runs along the outer oval of his jacket sleeve. "Excuse me, but I fairly busy right now –"

"Were you in a car accident?" I blurt, and God, was that rude. I notice with the way he gapes at me, something sour behind his gaze now. I bite the inside of my cheek uncomfortably then grin, trying to alleviate my dumb choice of words. "I mean, you wear a lot of bandages, dude. I was just wondering. You know, in case there's anything I can do to help out." That's bullshit. I don't want to become his live-in nurse.

I notice the muscles in his neck flexing under the wrapped pieces of bandage wound around it. I vaguely wonder if he was suicidal once. Maybe scars were the right way to go.

"I'm fine, thank you," Arthur deadpans, clearly not interested in our conversation anymore. Rude.

"You don't have to be embarrassed or anything," I say, and continue before I even notice the way his shoulders tense and his eyes widen ever so slightly. I wave my hand dismissively with a smile. "Lots of people have accidents. I think you look perfectly fine to me –"

Arthur shoots up to his feet, his face so close to mine that I get a couple of sweat drops on me at his sudden movement. I jump, genuinely surprised at how pale he looks and the bitterness on his face when he watches me. It makes something in my gut clench and my palms begin to sweat.

"I said I'm fine. _Piss off_," he hisses, his voice as thin as a sheet of paper. I can see his lip curling so I know I've seriously ticked him off. I feel like an ass, my mind floundering for something to say that will fix this. I didn't come over here to make him hate me; that's the opposite. I'm just so fucking curious. Call it a flaw of mine.

"Woah, hey, calm down. I didn't mean to – Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean any harm by it," I say, putting my hands up between us in a silent form of surrender. It doesn't deter Arthur's irritation or the way his fingers are flexing at his sides; almost like he wants to wring my neck or something. Well, shit if my old man was right about the mob.

"Get off my property."

I click my tongue against my teeth. "Well, technically I'm not on your property –"

"Leave!" he shouts, his hands shoving at my chest. I stumble back a step, but the force must've been too much for him, because the next thing I know Arthur's stumbling back a step, too, and his foot steps on a pair of hedge clippers. I distantly ponder why he has hedge clippers when his yard looks like something that belongs in an Indiana Jones movie before he's falling. I can't catch him, though I do try to, folks. Give me some credit.

Arthur hits his head on a bucket filled with soil peppered with rocks. I gawk, standing frozen for a minute, until I see blood. He cut his face against the edge. In an instant I vault over the fence and scramble next to my disoriented neighbor. His face is pinched with pain and he groans softly under his breath, fingers brushing against the gash along his nose.

"Hey, dude. Woah, just sit still for a second. Sorry, sorry," I babble, because I tend to babble when I'm nervous. Hell, I didn't even push him and I'm acting like I just turned the President in to the Taliban. My hands guide him to a sitting position and I squeeze the top of his nose, applying pressure to the wound. His eyes are a little foggy so he doesn't fight me, but when the blood won't stop I know we have to get some washcloths or paper towels to put over it.

The bandages wrapped around his nose and disappearing behind his head are dirty and covered in red patches. I'm no doctor, but that shit ain't sanitary. I begin removing it in great haste, hoping this will make up for whatever it is I said that hit a nerve. He blinks at me and then his eyes are huge, shouting something at me and clawing to get away.

But I don't hear it. Because I'm staring back at another pair of horrified green eyes watching me. The trail of blood drips over one and it shuts, but I can only stare.

Arthur is on his feet now, falling over himself like an idiot and attempting to cover his face with his hands. I hear only the sound of my blood rushing through my ears, my heartbeat thunderous. I see Arthur's lips moving but I don't really know what he's saying. My hands are frozen in the same position, my calves now cramping from kneeling for too long.

"You have four eyes," I say, the words so quiet they blow away on a breeze. Arthur looks like he just saw a ghost. I wet my lips and feel my body begin to thaw, my words more alarmed, louder. "Holy shit, you have _four eyes_."

My words jar Arthur into motion, for one second he's quivering in front of me like a baby chihuahua, then the next he's fumbling with his keys on his doorstep. I'm on him like cheese on macaroni, grabbing his wrists and twisting him around. He grimaces at me and my breath catches when all four eyes narrow. It's amazing.

"How – How did you – Did you always – H-how – _Are you an alien_?" I exclaim. Christ, I'm an idiot. He cringes and even I can see that I've hurt his feelings. I hurry to take it back. "Not an alien. You're not an alien, Arthur. You're more like the X-Men. _Oh my god_, you are an X-Man!"

Alfred, you are the King of Rudeness. It is you.

Arthur rips his wrist from my grip, covering his bloody and dirty and _four-fucking-eye'd_ face with his hand, a growl rumbling up from his throat. It's then that it clicks and I'm running my fingers over his other wrist, staring at the bandages like a kid stares at wrapping paper on Christmas morning. I want to unwrap him.

"Do you have more. How many eyes do you have?" I ask. Arthur's hands are shoving at me, and he lands a good hit to my jaw enough to let him go.

"Leave me alone!" he demands. I can hear the small lilt in his voice. He's afraid. Afraid that I'll judge him or call someone and he'd walk out to find News cameras on his doorstep tomorrow morning, probably. "For heaven's sake, I want you to go away! Just leave me alone, you brat!"

"I like you," is the first thing that comes out of my mouth. I don't know where it comes from, but it shuts Arthur up as if I placed duct tape over his lips. He's watching me like he doesn't know what to do in this situation, but hey, neither do I. I stare at the eyes below the ones that all humans have. They're large and mystified and I want to keep them that way.

So I grin.

"I think they're cool. You look cool, Arthur."

Arthur stares at me, breathing in a weird rhythm that I try to match a beat to with a song I heard on the radio earlier. He's not fighting me anymore, which is good, because he does have a good right hook. My jaw is throbbing but I keep his gaze, eager for his response. After a long while he seems to relax; not all the way – the tendons in his neck are still visible, like poles on a circus tent.

"Can I come in?"

He pauses but hesitantly nods, shutting his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples. Arthur unlocks his door and we go inside.

* * *

"It's a medical anomaly," Arthur explains, though the words sound forced and bitter when he says them. He props his hip against his green countertop and takes a sip of his tea. His cut is closed and a band aid is placed over it, but he keeps his eyes visible for me. I can tell he's extremely self-conscious because he flinches when I stare. "I was born with this so there isn't much else I can do."

"Is that why you don't get out much?"

He takes another sip and doesn't say anything.

"Where're your parents? I'd think you would have more people helping you out with this – not that you're handicapped or anything!" I amend, sticking my hands up when four eyes glare at me.

"Obviously no one would want a child with this affliction. I was raised in a foster home. A very concealed place. Filthy, rotten dump if you ask me," he mutters the last part.

"How do you get money?" My fingers drum against his table, ears eagerly soaking up this information. He opens his mouth but I'm too impatient and start talking again. "Do you have more? You know, under those?" I gesture to his bandaged arms and neck. Arthur looks down and my skin prickles. "Can I see? Please, if it's not too much to ask."

Arthur sets his cup down gently and, slower than a glacier melting, goes through the painstaking process of removing his bandages. He slips off his high collared jacket, revealing a simple white button down shirt with rolled up sleeves to the elbows. His arms really are covered with them. I wonder if his chest is, too.

When the first eye emerges I sit upright in my chair. Arthur pauses but then starts up again. I forget to breathe when his arms are bare, dozens of eyes watching me, to see what I will do. Eyes without eyebrows don't seem to have any emotion beyond scared, it seems.

"Amazing," I finally say on a breath, then Arthur's main eyes look away, his nose crinkling with some emotion I can't place. I stand up and walk over to him, looming over the smaller man and pulling up one of his hands to get a better look. "Can it see me?"

"They're all functioning . . ." Arthur says; his words are brittle. I don't care. This really is the coolest thing I've ever seen. I look up at him and grin just then, and Arthur flinches at how close I am. I wonder if he's ever let anyone look this carefully before.

"Do you have eyes on your butt?"

Arthur sputters, some of his eyes shutting tightly. I know for certain he thinks I'm a moron. I just laugh loudly and grip his fingers even tighter in mine.

"You have no tact, do you?" he asks.

"Nope."

I lean in close, really observe Arthur, pondering how his life has been up to this point. He shouldn't have to live a life of seclusion. He should be celebrated. This isn't a disease. This is wonderful.

"Do you wanna go get some coffee with me?"

Arthur's eyes all blink in unison. Trippy. I can see him trying to form words into a sentence in his brain. "Wh- At your home?" he asks, baffled. I shake my head.

"No. Right now. At a Starbucks. Or Peet's. That place is good, too."

"I don't . . ." His voice fades off and he looks uncomfortable again. He doesn't want the attention on him. Even bandaged, Arthur looks like someone who just stepped out of a burn unit. I give his fingers a reassuring squeeze that stops him. He raises his eyebrows and I just smile.

"Baby steps are good," I say, "Coffee is a baby step. I'll tell them you're a serial killer." Arthur looks shocked but a bubble of laughter bursts out without his permission. I like the way his eyes squint when he smiles. It makes them shine.

"You are different, Alfred Jones. I mean that without an ounce of dishonesty."

I laugh right along with him. "That makes two of us then, huh?"


End file.
